


And We'll Start A Fire

by geckoholic



Category: Terminator (Movies), Terminator Genisys
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Motel Room Sex, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: It does occur to her that this is all a bit fast; they could wait a few days, or take their time now, but Sarah feels like she's been waiting for him all her life, whether she'd known, whether she'd wanted it or not. He fell through time for her. Going slow has never been the pace they were made for, that suited them best.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



> This was born from your request for _anything set post-canon, with the two of them figuring out how to be together when they're safe and know they would have been John's parents_ and my longstanding plan to write them motel room sex in honor of the original movie.
> 
> Beta-read by totallybalanced. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Love Runs Out" by One Republic.

Ever since Pops rescued her and carried her away from her dying parents and her last moments of a normal life, Sarah has put everything she had into not being afraid. Not of the big things, anyway. The world is gonna end? Well, not her watch. Man-shaped machines out to kill her? Keep trying, assholes. Sure, there's fear, but it's an afterthought, something that makes her sharper, that she can use. The things that actively make panic slide down her back like a cold shower are smaller, subtler. 

Kyle takes her hand in his when they drive away from the farm of his would-be-have-been-will-be parents, smiles at her like she's something wonderful and irreplaceable, the only thing that will ever matter. And suddenly, while smiling back, Sarah realizes she hasn't been this afraid, rabbit-under-the-gaze-of-a-snake terrified, for as long as she can remember. It's been awhile since she had something to lose. It's an amazing feeling, and it's making her heart stop in her chest with worry.

He looks at her, then, the same fear reflected on his face, and tangles their fingers together. His thumb is drawing little circles in her palm, soothing, and Sarah's not sure which of them he's trying to reassure. Maybe it doesn't matter, because it's easier to breathe already, knowing she's not the only one who can't handle happiness anymore, whose brain can't process relief. It's another battle they can fight together, _win together_. 

 

***

 

They take turns driving until neither of them – save for Pops, but he doesn't get a vote when it gets to rest or food – can keep their eyes open anymore. Motels by the road are a dime a dozen, and there's not much of a system to choosing them. The next one they pass, that's the winner. 

It's nearly 11 PM and the night clerk looks at them with bleary eyes when they enter, a bell by the door greeting them winy a tinny chime. She's maybe Sarah's age, a notepad and what looks like college textbook open on the counter in front of her. 

But she recovers quickly, raises an eyebrow at them by the way of asking whether they'd like a place to stay the night. 

Pops steps past them, with an overly obvious, conspiratorial smile. “Two rooms, please.” 

“Sure,” says the clerk, looking from him to Sarah and Kyle. “And you will be taking a room together?” she wants to know, almost bored, like it's a foregone conclusion and she's just making sure. It's not. Or maybe it is exactly that. The answer to that question is so much more complicated than a simple yes or no. 

Kyle doesn't say anything but he glances over, hope in his eyes and a hint of longing. Sarah doesn't have the heart to tell him no. She confirms, takes the key for _their_ room, and counters Pop's obnoxious thumbs up with one of the more extensive eye rolls in her repertoire. 

 

***

 

There's a condom dispenser in the hallway, close to the public restrooms and not far from the vending machine. That goes a long way to say what kind of establishment this is – or maybe it's just commonplace these days – and Sarah spends a good long while staring at it when she goes to get them a bag of wine gums and some chocolate bars for a midnight snack. 

She has always been practical. Little choice not to be, with the way she grew up. Being prepared is essential, and it's only natural that it'd bleed into aspects of her live that aren't training to fight and survive. There's a lot of ground to cover between kissing and needing protection, but... well, it's destiny, right? And this – Kyle – just so happens to be a part of her fate Sarah's decided not to fight anymore. The only part of it, as it stands. The part she very much does want to fight is conceiving John, and now's not the time to play it coy and pretend like sex isn't going to happen sooner or later anyway. So she shrugs, digs for a few more coins, and buys two packs. 

 

***

 

There's something soothingly familiar about curling up to sleep in a motel bed. Sure, it's more than thirty ears in the future and she and half the equipment in here seems a bit Star Trek to her, but the linen is still cheap and worn and a little scratchy, and it still smells like generic off-brand detergent. The bed still creaks, and paint is still peeling off the headboard in places. Sarah hasn't known home in a long time, but this is as close as she gets. Never the same place, but all of them similar enough to recreate the feeling of _coming back_ somewhere. 

None of that changes the fact that her mind's racing and her body clock is totally lost, though. And so Sarah lies on her side, head pillowed on her hands, and watches Kyle sleep. She's envious for his ability to find rest so easily, endeared by the way his nose twitches when she breathes in his direction. Never before has she slept next to someone – discounting Pops and her parents – and it should probably feel foreign. Uncomfortable. Like someone's infringing on her personal space. 

It doesn't. 

Eventually the ritual of lying in bed, the dark and the quiet, do succeed in luring her body to sleep. She drifts off with the thought that _home_ might have to be redefined at some point, and doesn't even get around to chiding herself for that. 

 

*** 

 

Sarah wakes to find their positions reversed, in the proverbial sense: she blinks her eyes open and looks directly into Kyle's. He holds her gaze and smiles, doesn't possess the good grace to be ashamed about having been found staring, and for that alone Sarah shifts and rolls closer, rolls into his arms, kissing him. He's so _open_. It wouldn't occur to him to guard his emotions, and it's the opposite of what she expected from someone who grew up fighting for his live. But maybe it makes sense; maybe that just means there were more important things to worry about than getting a little too obvious about what he's feeling. Or maybe he didn't have much of a chance to show them in the first place, and that thought makes her sad, makes her sigh into the kiss, run her hand over the curve of his hip in a dumb, futile gesture of comfort. 

Misunderstanding completely, Kyle draws back, worry sketched across his face. He doesn't need to ask out loud if she's okay; the question is there in his expression, the way his eyebrows knit together, the slight frown. 

Sarah wants that expression _gone_. She chases him, leans back in and presses her lips to his forehead, just between his eyes, then kisses him again. Lingers with it, this time, lets it deepen. His hands find her hip, caress them in the same way she just did to him, and oh, _ohh_. They haven't been this close yet – they haven't done anything – and it shouldn't feel this familiar, like she belongs, found something she never knew she'd been looking for to begin with. She inches closer, never breaking the kiss, and responds in kind. There's no real conscious thought, no intent, when her fingers slip below the waistband of his underwear, at least not until his breath hitches and he lets out a half bitten-off moan. 

She takes that as an incentive to tug the fabric down a bit more, and then, when he doesn't offer any sign of protest, slide them off his ass altogether. Keeps touching him, running her palm over his skin, her fingertips. He bucks, the motion more instinct than demand, she's pretty sure, which she finds confirmed when he draws back and his eyes fly open. Not like he's ashamed; like he's _surprised_. 

They widen when her hands change direction, now venturing downwards on the other side, and he pulls his lip lower lip between his teeth when she brushes two fingers against the base of his cock. He's hard already, but there's a line here, and now she wants actual, unmistakable consent. 

She searches for his gaze and mouths the question at him, not quite capable of forming the words right now. Rubs at him a little, to make it clear what she's asking about. 

At first he merely nods, but when he senses her continued hesitation, he shifts onto his back and bends to pull his underwear all the way off, then opens his arms in invitation. Sarah curls into the space he offers her and picks off where she left off, wrapping her hand around him, stroking slowly. She watches the head of his cock disappear in her grip on the upstroke, poke back up on the downstroke. Then she glances back up to his face, can't quite make up her mind about where to keep her attention; his eyes have fallen shut. She lets her thumb play over the the head, teasing, delighted when he grows wet at the tip. 

That's when impatience gets the better of her, and she remembers that she's still wearing far too many clothes herself, that she's aching, desire running through her like a current, pulsing through her cunt with an urgency she hadn't previously been aware of. After a linger kiss, she crawls off the bed, retrieves the condoms she got the day before and strips of her shirt and panties. Allows herself a couple more long teasing strokes, another swipe through the precome gathering on him, before she gets the condom on his dick and straddles him. 

It does occur to her that this is all a bit fast; they could wait a few days, or take their time now, but Sarah feels like she's been waiting for him all her life, whether she'd known, whether she'd wanted it or not. He fell through time for her. Going slow has never been the pace they were made for, that suited them best. 

She leans forward and threads their fingers together, then pulls his arms forward so their joined hands are resting on his chest. She holds his gaze when she lifts herself up. It's not her first time, but she suspects it might well be his. She reaches between their bodies to line him up and slides down, very slowly, giving herself time to adjust. Then she leans all her weight on their hands, his chest, and starts to move. It's not like she's an expert at this, either, although she's done it before, a few near-anonymous hookups on her days off, out with friends that hardly deserved the name because she'd only know them a week and not at all contrite for sneaking away from the group and finding herself someone to fuck. Her movements might be stilted, her rhythm unsteady, but it gets them there, and quite fast; she's coming around him after mere minutes, falling forward, but he's there to catch her, picking up the slack, gathering her in to wrap his arms around her while he chases his own release. 

 

*** 

 

The place has a backyard that's actually halfway nice to look at, and a veranda on each room that allows its guest to do so. There's flower arrangements in neatly kept circular flower bed, a small waterspout fountain in the middle, very much suburban front yard in style. Sarah imagines that this is the owner's little pride and joy, the only thing they actually give half a shit about – the state of their room means that sure isn't true about much else – and she tries to remember the names of some of the flowers. 

She gives up on that one eventually; her mother loved flowers, but ever since her parents died gardening hasn't really been part of her education. Instead she counts out the pattern of the arrangement, how many rows and how many flowers in each, and lays it out into a strategical approach like the flowers are an army under her command. It's automatic, skills she was never going to use but impart on her unborn son, and as soon as she realizes that, she stops dead in her tracks. Shakes her head, even, to expel the thought more thoroughly. 

She glances inside, at Kyle's form still hidden underneath the bed sheet, sleeping off his orgasm. He'd have learned those tactics from John, most likely, and it stuns her, the way their live have been intertwined from angles of time, destined to meet in the middle, woven around their so as the common denominator. But not anymore, not any further; she's here, and that young John up on that farm will never meet any other version of her. In the grand scheme of things, their story is about to end. The idea makes her sad, but just for a moment. 

Because in the here and now, the version of reality that matters, it's only just started.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
